He expected tears, accusations of hatred. They never came.
He expected rage, storming off. None of that either.
Instead her gaze was steady, her back straight, her voice even and calm. “I guess I should be grateful you don’t have your sword tied to your back, because clearly I touched a nerve. But that’s all right.” She stepped around him. “We played a game that went too far. Now we know the boundaries.” She headed back to camp, saying as she walked, “Although if you call me a slag or whore again—I’ll have you killed. I only let my sister and mother get away with that, and that’s because they’re more dangerous than you could ever hope to be, warlord.”
She left him standing there, staring at the ground. Never before, not once in his life, had Ragnar lost control of his tongue. Words had always been his weapon as much as Magick and good steel, because most of his kin, especially his father, were unable to fight Ragnar on that level. But, he used to think with pride, he never went for the easy strike. He never used words simply to hurt, to destroy. When he used them, it was to get what he wanted.
Yet suddenly, in the middle of some Southland forest, he’d used words like his father once used his favorite warhammer. Brutally and with no care for the outcome.
Disgusted with himself, Ragnar again sat on his haunches at the water’s edge and tried hard to convince himself that the look of pain he’d seen in Princess Keita’s brown eyes was not nearly as bad as it had seemed.
Chapter Eleven
He wished he could say that for the next two days of their trip she wouldn’t speak to him, refused to look at him, that she flounced off every time he asked her a question, that she hissed at him, or told him to piss off anytime he opened his mouth.
Ragnar wished he could say Princess Keita had done all that. That she’d played the wounded royal to the hilt. Too bad her way of getting even was much more artful, much more brutal.
Keita did in fact speak to Ragnar. Very politely. When she asked for something, she always followed her request with “please.” When he told her to do something, she did it without question and followed what he said to the letter. She joined into conversation only when spoken to directly, and her replies were never too short or too long.
She kept her back straight, her head high, and even borrowed one of her brother’s books to read during their breaks.
Ragnar soon realized that Keita had become everything he’d always expected and wanted out of a proper royal princess. He also now realized how much he hated a proper royal princess. He never thought he’d miss her laugh or the way she flirted with his kin or himself, or those annoying giggles and the way she teased her brother. But he did miss all that. At the very least, he missed them from Keita.
But she’d frozen him out, hadn’t she? Like an avalanche of snow burying him beneath a cliff.
The others knew something had happened. They all watched the etiquette-correct moments between him and Keita and they knew something had changed, but none knew what. Except the Eastlander. He glared at Ragnar every time Keita’s back was turned.
Not that Ragnar blamed either the Eastlander or Keita. He’d been unable to sleep the last two nights, flinching each time he remembered what he’d said to her.
So by the time they arrived in a safe place early that evening—the foreigner asking them to cut their daily trip short in the middle of nowhere—Ragnar was exhausted, cranky, and dangerously annoyed with himself and the world.
He sat down on the ground, his back pressed into the small hill behind him, his wings spread out so they could get a good stretch after so much flying.
“Éibhear.” The Eastlander tapped the Blue’s shoulder. “I’m taking your sister over to that lake about a half-mile away. She wants a bath.” The Blue nodded and pulled out one of the books his sister had picked up for him.
After the pair walked off, Vigholf crouched in front of Ragnar.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“She’s become like one of those boring royals we always made fun of, and you’ve become a mean bastard. Something must have happened between you two. What did you say to her?”
“Nothing I want to discuss. So let it go, brother.” Now Meinhard crouched in front of him. “If you hurt her feelings, cousin—”
Unable to stand a second more, Ragnar stood and walked off, picking up his travel bag before he left camp.
Perhaps a good calming spell would ease his tension. And gods!
Anything to stop the itching, which had gotten considerably worse since his last meeting with Keita by that lake. Ragnar stopped at a tree, shifted to human, and, leaning against it, scratched where the itching was the worst.
Scratched so hard he feared there might be blood. This was becoming intolerable!
Moments from tracking Keita down and demanding she remove whatever spell she’d included when she’d impaled him with her gods-damn tail, Ragnar caught sight of the princess walking off alone through the trees.
She was human now, dressed in another gown he’d never seen before, a fur cloak, and no shoes.
Ragnar scowled. For a She-dragon who loved human clothes as much as she did, he’d think shoes would be a given.
And exactly where did she think she was going in the middle of nowhere? Alone, human, and shoeless?
Keita stood in front of the big gate that surrounded Castle Moor.
Unlike the more fortresslike castles that the Southland territorial lords lived in, Castle Moor was like a palace. There were guards, but only a few strong ones to throw out any who might get out of hand after too much drink and p**sy or cock, but there was nothing else to protect against a raid or army attack.
Then again, Lord Athol Reidfurd didn’t need that kind of protection.
At one time he may have been called a mage or a sorcerer or a wizard, but these days none who followed those paths would claim Athol as their own. It was said he’d gone down a darker path, perhaps sold his soul. Keita didn’t know, and she’d rarely worried about it. She didn’t have enough Magickal power to interest someone of his stature, and what went on behind his castle walls whenever she was in attendance seemed to have one focus and one focus only—pleasure.
The gate slowly swung back, and Athol, with his personal assistant, met her there.
“Keita.”
“Athol.” She walked into his outstretched arms and gave him a hearty hug.
“It’s been too long, my beauty.” He lifted her chin with two fingers.
“And you are still beautiful. I do hope you plan on staying.”
“I actually can’t. Not for long anyway.”
“Too bad,” he murmured. “I have such entertainment planned for this evening. I’m sure you’d enjoy it.”
She probably would, but that wasn’t why she was here.
“Perhaps another time?”
“As you wish.” He released her. “Where’s Ren?”
“I don’t really know,” she lied. Against Ren’s wishes, Keita had insisted on leaving her old friend behind. She had to. The tension between Ren and Athol had always been a problem. They tolerated each other because of Keita, but barely. If she wanted to get anything out of the elf, she couldn’t have Ren there, needling Athol to death. Something the Eastlander was very good at.
“And your friend?” Athol asked.
Unclear what he was talking about, she asked, “Friend?” Athol raised his chin, motioning to a spot behind her. Keita looked over her shoulder and had to work very hard not to show her shock at seeing the warlord standing right behind her. How long had he been there? Why hadn’t she noticed him following her?
Ragnar stepped forward. “Brother Ragnar of the Order of the Knowledge, my lord. I’m accompanying Lady Keita on her current trip.”
“A monk?” Athol asked, his gaze on Keita.
She quickly took Athol’s arm, her mind scrambling. “He hopes to save my soul,” she finally said, keeping her voice low. “And I hope to take his.”
Athol laughed. “Ahhh. My scandalous little Keita. I’m so glad to see you haven’t changed.” He gave her a wink before bowing before the warlord. “I am Athol Reidfurd, brother, lord of this manor.” Athol motioned them both in with a wave of his arm. “And you are both more than welcome here.”
Ragnar couldn’t believe the power of this place once he walked past that gate. It was as if the Magick he carried around with him had been locked into his skin, making most of his spells ineffectual. The loss of power was so great, Ragnar knew he’d be unable to shift back to his dragon form or unleash his lightning, no matter how much he might want to. Even his physical strength wasn’t as strong—it was as though he’d become truly human. And what really astounded Ragnar was that all the power that protected this place emanated from one source and one source alone—Lord Reidfurd himself.
He followed the elf lord toward his palace home, Keita dropping back so that they walked side by side.
“What are you doing here?” she softly asked.
“Watching your back.”
“I don’t need you to watch my back.” And for a brief second he thought he had the old, intolerable Keita back. Until she added, “Although it’s greatly appreciated, my lord.”
Dammit! “Keita—”
She hastened her step and entered the doors with their host.
Traveling behind them, Ragnar walked inside but had to stop at the very entrance. He’d heard of places like this, but had never seen one. Even the human queen’s castle looked nothing like this. The entrance hallway to this place was made of pure marble, the intricate designs etched into the wall accented with pure gold. Standing gold torch-holders lined the hallway as did lit crystal chandeliers overhead, setting the entire space ablaze with light.
And framing the entranceway—two six-foot-high phalluses.
“Something you need, brother?” Reidfurd’s assistant asked him.
“No. Thank you.”
“Then if you’ll please follow me.”
Ragnar followed the small group down the incredibly long hallway, passing room after room, each with a closed door or doors. Yet it took him only a moment to recognize the sounds coming from behind those closed doors—the sounds of f**king. Plus the smell of sex permeated everything, making it clear what kind of castle this was. Gods, had Keita been so angry and hurt at what he’d said that she’d come here, looking for solace? Looking for cold, anonymous sex?
Then again, if he was honest with himself—and for the last two days he’d been forcing himself to be brutally honest with himself—that didn’t seem Keita’s way, did it? Getting cold, anonymous sex might be her way, but to do it because she’d been hurt or angered by his stupidity? No. Keita’s way seemed much more direct—likely she’d stab him with her tail again. Or wait until he was asleep and roll him off a mountain. Yes. That was more Keita the Viper’s style, he now realized.
Then why the hell were they here?
Eventually they reached a private room at the end of the hallway. A den for Reidfurd himself, it seemed. Once inside, the assistant closed the door and offered chairs to Ragnar and Keita. When they were all sitting comfortably in the leather chairs, Athol asked, “So what brings you here, my beauty?”